


Of the Night Brothers

by requiembycandlelight



Category: Viriconium Series - M. John Harrison
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homoerotic Swordplay, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Methven, Pre-Canon, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairings, War, harrison's timeline is wack so i do what i want, kind of between canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 10:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requiembycandlelight/pseuds/requiembycandlelight
Summary: The Methven fight to expand the borders of Viriconium. With so many talented, brilliant men forced together, they must fight a battle on a different front: inter-personally. tegeus-Cromis and Birkin Grif are two opposite forces of nature. When one pushes, the other must provide a reaction.





	Of the Night Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Virus Meadow by And Also the Trees. Tags/warnings/rating may change as I write. Please let me know if anything directly contradicts canon. I am working purely from memory, as mine was a library copy. This chapter is mostly just being published to gauge interest, so it will likely be edited and re-uploaded in the near future.

tegeus-Cromis had been a very young man when he was called by Methven. There were fewer of them, at the beginning. As the years progressed and the influence of Viriconium reached out over the borderlands, their king brought men from the increasing bounds into their fold. Each man was skilled as to be worth ten common soldiers, and soon they would be the greatest army ever known, though only a few dozen strong. They were strategists, horsemen, martial artists, inventors, marksmen, negotiators, and swordsmen. They weren’t so much dreamers as believers, for what they dreamed they made true. More importantly, what Methven dreamed they made true because they believed in him. No man was more or less important than any other. None hated any other more than the usual score for this reason. And so, the King ruled the Pastel City and everything the eye could see from its tallest tower, spreading peace farther each day his knights drove the Northmen back.

Cromis himself was a poet, descended from an ancient noble house. In actuality, he was known only as poet to himself and his sister, but she had been slain just after – and in his secret heart, in worldly retaliation to – his own slaying of the Lamia, that ancient foe of his house. With her died his dreams of publication, a life of language and no more bloodshed. After he killed her killer, the land came to know him as the greatest swordsman of his time, and he was sent for by the King. As knight, tegeus-Cromis came to learn much of the world, and began to write the greatest poetry of his young life. His work, while deft as his renowned swordplay, was always touched by melancholia and despondency. Often accompanied by small instruments the knights would find on their travels, he sang of the setting sun over the mountains, of the glint of blood-lust in his comrade’s eyes, and of the quiet hiss of arrows in the dark night. He dressed himself in shadows, and his thick early-grayed hair gave him a somber air of one much older. He was too young and raised too respectfully to join the older members in their discussions of politics and art, and too prematurely aged in the mind to enjoy the company of those his own age and younger. Still, too, was he reminded of the treachery of the Lamia, whom he had opened his heart to while in the guise of a quick, pretty youth.

Tomb the Dwarf turned an eye to him one night, over the small, dim fire shared by the knights too restless to sleep and said to him, “You give song to these men, but never of women, of drink, of honour, or of victory. You’ve heard these in their own attempts at song, why not give them the comfort they seek instead of reminding them of their own murder and misery?” He said this while attaching a silvery mechanism to the faceplate of a large helm, and Cromis gestured to this as he laughed shortly.

“I could no more sing of glory and bawdiness than you could put down your strange metals and work with sticks and clay. Let them please themselves. Besides, the only woman you care for is your antique machines, so leave me be.”

The dwarf said no more, seeming to be once again engrossed in his strange mechanics. A light in his eye belied that he had gotten all he wanted that night; amusement from a rise out of tegeus-Cromis.

Many days passed the same way: Methven pointing his knights in a certain direction, and them planning and fighting and talking straight through until he was satisfied. When he was satisfied, they were pointed in another direction and the process began again. Occasionally, they would be given leave to explore the lands their swords and minds had conquered, or to rest and wander through the landscapes of wasteland or forest. Rarely, one of their number would be killed, and they would stop to mourn and give him a hero’s burial. Days or weeks after the wake, new faces might appear among them and they would have to learn how these new men fit into the holes left or created by ever-changing violence.

Seventeen days after the battle of the Southeastern Hartsmoor, and the death of Mim Orfer, the mounted axe-man – Birkin Grif appeared out of the fog to join their ranks. A month shy of being two years tegeus-Cromis’ junior, the soldier was nearly twice his size. When they took hands, Cromis – not a short man himself -- had to tilt his head up to meet the eyes in the man’s down-turned face, and his own hand felt like a child’s in the grip of the great paw. His voice was a deep rumble as he introduced himself, the great bellows of his lungs adding force to his words. Whether the effect was intended or not, he commanded the attention of whomever he spoke to. Many of the knights were impressed despite themselves, for few of their number made a striking impression at first meeting, but instead cultivated awe and respect over time through knowledge of their skill and use of power. However impressive he may have been physically, with his fiery fair hair and brightly coloured stitching on his cloak, he was new, untested, and had come in a time of mourning. Looking at him, Cromis felt the prick of memory at the back of his mind, the whispering of Khan and his death the fault of the weakness of the Lord of the Sixth House, Cromis himself. The similarity lasted but briefly, in mere size and colour. Birkin Grif would have to prove himself to be more than the glorified soldier he seemed.

Prove himself he did, and more. While he had less finesse and could not plan so intricately nor extensively as Norvin Trinor, he had a head for battle and managing an army. tegeus-Cromis won every time they sparred, but it took time, and each blow landed by Grif was felt for days. He was trained with a sword and axe, was a more-than-fair horseman, and his armor seemed to weigh less heavily on his body than it did on other men. Paucemanly’s fascination with travelling into the sky baffled him, but he was willing to sit and hear him speak of stars and planets and the constellations they formed; likewise was he with the dwarf’s instruments. Birkin Grif was brash, confident, and completely unashamed of himself, entrenching himself firmly in the ranks of the youngest men. He challenged the elder and more experienced knights, but amiably. His joy was loud and contagious, and his anger burned bright and hot and quick. He was not prone to lugubrious ponderances – could hardly stand them in others – but sank into despondency if unoccupied.

Cromis, however, was one for both pondering and lugubriousness, which set the two at odds. Long periods passed of them saying no more than a polite greeting to each other, then all at once they would collide into a heated altercation; a battle of wits or swords. Cromis was quicker, sharper in words and weapons, able to deftly whittle away at the defenses and pierce the vulnerability underneath. Grif wielded less finesse, but each swing of his blade or his tongue was backed with a bone-rattling power, leaving bruises blooming dark beneath pale skin. The violence of their clashes increased in periods of rest, as if the energy bubbling between skin and muscle could only be released through bloodshed and the infliction of pain on another body. Too long after battle, when hurling insults could not be enough, Grif’s physical aggression would boil over, and patient Cromis would rise to meet it.

It was a source of much discussion in the camp; Lord tegeus-Cromis’ indulgence in Birkin Grif’s barbarity, when he would otherwise keep himself buried in books and instruments, scorning the men who played at terror between too-real campaigns. Some proposed it was merely to keep his skills sharp – after all, while he obviously had the upper-hand skill-wise, Grif was always trying to learn new techniques to surprise him with, which Cromis promptly learned and turned back on him. Others claimed it was a touch of masochism, accepting and nursing the heavy blows a self-inflicted punishment for whatever had driven him to his solitary, grievous self. Still others posited an underlying animosity between their bloodlines, an ongoing battle over a mutual lost love, a curse which descended upon one or the other and would only be sated by death. A hundred other explanations passed through the camp, each more far-fetched and fantastical than the last.

None of these were correct, but some were less incorrect than others. If anyone had asked either of the men, which none were wont to do, they themselves could not have described it as any more than a need, equal to food or wine. Birkin Grif could fight a string of every other soldier among them, but his rage would not be sated until he faced Cromis. Cromis, on the other hand, could not be goaded into fighting by anyone but Grif, and his best songs would always come from after such a bout.


End file.
